


Sandhya Arati (Evening Devotional)

by monimala



Category: Kahaani (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, POV Male Character, Post-Movie(s), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of the film. Spoilers ahoy! For Rana, it is a journey of more than kilometers…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sandhya Arati (Evening Devotional)

**Author's Note:**

> The language used here is not Hindi; it’s Bengali. Any specific translation or regional culture questions, just hit me up in the comments!

“ _Haen_ , Ma,” he murmurs, as the train rattles over the trestles like gambler’s dice. “ _Aashchi_.” _Yes, Mother, I’m coming; I’m on my way home._

It is a journey of more than kilometers… putting the Howrah Bridge behind him and the dust and blood and sweat of the city, too. When he shuts off his mobile, slides it into his shirt pocket, he knows he is traveling an entire universe away. He’ll step, barefoot, over the threshold to a place of comfort, of familiarity. Ma will have _rooti-thorkari_ waiting for him, a light meal after his long day, with the table’s lantern banked to a warm glow. Home is as far from the Kalighat police station as the earth from the moon. As a mere mortal is from the gods.

Rana pulls his bare feet up on the seat, resting his elbows on his knees like an old man sitting by a drain and begging for coins. The slight chill of Kolkata during _puja_ time breezes through his thin cotton shirt. His palms are cold, too, but not because of the wind. No, as he flexes his fingers, they are craving the warmth of another hand. Of *her* hand.

He tugs at the red thread tied around his wrist, a blessing faded and worn, and shifts against the window, gazing out between the bars. He’s never dared ask Khan what became of her. Almost a year has gone by, and she’s vanished… like a statue submerged after the festival is done. Was her name truly Vidya-- Mrs. Bagchi, his respectful mind corrects even now-- and was the hurt in her eyes real? Was *any* of it real? When he pulled her through the alleys and broke locks in the dark, did she feel the same exhilaration as he? 

When he was in school, class ten, there were boys who acted as though touching a girl was everything. The kind of Hindi film drama where they would cut names into their wrists with the nib of a pen and sing serenades in the courtyard before morning prayers. Rana was always too serious for that. Too quiet. He is still too quiet, too serious.

Some nights, there is a photo waiting by his plate. A crisp color picture of a pretty girl, or a not-so pretty girl. And Ma looks at him with hope shining in her eyes. “ _Cholbe_?” she asks him, eagerly. _“Kotha shuro korbo_?” No, he tells her, watching her face fall. It is a no-go. Don’t start the talks.

He has a whole sheaf of excuses. He’s only been working one and a half years. He does not have the seniority to support a wife. His hours are terrible. He is too busy, especially as Khan from IB still calls upon him for special assignments...though, of course, he does not tell Ma that. “ _Jokhon tumi aacho, thokon bou-er ki dorkar_?” he says to her instead. _When I have you, what do I need a bride for?_

She clucks over him, smoothing back his hair like he’s still a boy who’s seen nothing of the world. As though he’s never known death, never known pain, never known love. She has no way of understanding that he once experienced all those things in the scant few days between _Mahalaya_ and _Vijayadashami_. “ _Jokhon tomar Ma thakbe na? Thokon ki hobe?_ ” _When you don’t have your mother, then what?_

“ _Ma Durga tho thakbe_ ,” he always laughs, gently. _Then I’ll still have the mother goddess, won’t I?_

In his dreams, the goddess has long, loose black hair and a white sari with a red border. Her eyes are a little bit wild and a little bit sorry. But she takes his hand. She *always* takes his hand.

“ _Aashchi_ ,” he whispers, hoping against hope that somehow, some way, she hears his promise… that she is making the same one.

_I’m coming. I’m on my way home._

\--end--

March 12, 2012


End file.
